I tell you stop or when to go, or send a message soft and low.

Quiet talk In your ear No need to squawk Only you can hear

I occur in December, but not in any other month. What am I?

I keep what happened, line by line, a captured truth, a stored design. Or break a limit, rise above - I mark the moment all speak of. In quiet logs or roaring fame, I hold the past and bear its name.

A store where you might find, Delicious food of a certain kind, Served in a bowl of ceramic or bread, Where a heated discussion comes to a head. A simple question posed with flair, Why would you buy your clothes there?